


Once the Dawn Breaks

by InitialA



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, Alternate Universe - No Curse, Curse Breaking, Curses, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Lieutenant Killian Jones, Lieutenant Killian Jones/Princess Emma Swan, Minor Violence, Quests, Sharing a Bed, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13667148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InitialA/pseuds/InitialA
Summary: With his brother's life on the line, Killian Jones finds himself on a quest for a cure in the form of a mythical bird. What he finds instead is Princess Emma of Misthaven, bound and cursed to serve Lord Rumpelstiltskin. Together, he and the princess make a pact: she will cure his brother and he'll return her home. But the road is a long one, with surprises along the way, and feelings can change...





	Once the Dawn Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is at last, my contribution to the Captain Swan Little Bang! Please be sure to check out the artwork and gifset done by the fantastic **fairytalesandtimetravel** and **sailingcaptainswan** that goes with this fic. I may have cried.
> 
> Many, many thanks to ALL of the authors and artists involved with the CSLB for making this so much fun to work on, keeping spirits up and listening to complaints and commiserating about how hard writing is.
> 
> Special thanks to **emmaswanchoosesyou** and **idoltina** for beta'ing this and helping me beat it into shape and also keep it to the word count. 
> 
> **Warnings:** depictions of illness, enslavement, mild violence

Tales are told in taverns. In some ways, the breath spent telling tales keeps the tavern walls up far better than the gold spent on ale and hunter's stew. If tales in taverns ceased, no new adventures would be had, no songs written, no maids lured into bedchambers that weren't their own.

Killian Jones has grown up hearing all sorts of tales. The ones his mother told, then his father, then the captain that spun a tale of why Brennan Jones sold his children into slavery. Then it was sailors' tales, ones speaking of krakens and mermaids, harpies and sirens, white whales and storms that could only be caused by the wrath of the gods.

Birds that healed any illness.

This particular tale, the mythical healing bird, is what keeps Killian in his seat. His head hangs low, his hands keeping warm on this chilly night by cupping his warmed cider. There's plenty of tales to be told in this tavern, all of them in increasingly thick burrs from the bawdy men around him, and Killian's fingers tighten around his tankard when the group nearest him bursts out laughing.

He's had too little sleep in too many days and his nerves are frayed worse than the lines on the  _Jewel_ after a storm.

"Aye, but young James went off to tha' madman, did ye hear?" A man not far from Killian spoke with a voice like thunder. "Took his wife and the wee bairn with him, beggin' for the bairn's life. Red fever, 'twas. Ten men before him died fer their troubles, but the ol' madman, him or tha' bird of his got a soft spot for bairns."

Killian looks towards the voice and sees a man getting to his feet, waving his companions off and announcing his intentions to use the privy. In his haste to follow, Killian knocks over the bench he was seated upon; he throws a couple of sceats on the table for the trouble and pushes his way through the sea of people crowding the room.

Out behind the tavern is a stone-walled privy, sectioned off into spaces and with doors to give the user privacy. Killian spots his mark going into one and waits, keyed up and fighting the urge to burst in and demand answers. He tries focus on anything else that's not fumbling for which burning question should leap from his mouth first.

Turns out he doesn't get the first word.

A hand claps Killian's shoulder and he's jerked around, shoved against the tavern wall, and a knife glints out of the corner of his eye. "I donna like bein' followed, lad. Ten seconds, or I take an ear as a warnin'."

Killian swallows, finding it difficult to remember he's faced worse than a drunk with a knife in his life, and manages to say, "The madman you spoke of, the one with the bird-do you know where he is?"

The man stares at him incredulously, though the knife doesn't waver. "What?"

"The tale you told! James and his family going to cure his child, please, I need to know where they went!"

The pressure on Killian's shoulder eases and the knife disappears from his vision. The man even takes a step back as he sheathes his weapon, hanging close to the sporran favored by men in this kingdom. "It's a desperate man who goes lookin' for Lord Rumpelstiltskin. A more desperate man follows Dougal MacTavish to the privy." He pauses. "Queen Merida donna like such a man as Lord Rumpelstiltskin so near our borders, but there's no' much she can do, lest she catapults the man's castle to rubble. So long as his lordship keeps his side o' the border, we leave well enough alone."

For the first time in ages, Killian feels hope. "Which border?

"The one they call the Broken Kingdom. Camelot."

* * *

The border to Camelot is a few days' ride; for Killian, who has neither time nor money to barter for a horse, it takes almost a week on foot. For as much ground as he feels he loses, he tries to reason that he doesn't have to stop to care for a horse; he's used to working for long periods of time without rest, he can sup as he walks, and there's no need to find camping area that would shelter both man and beast. Most nights Killian tucks up into a tree, hidden from bandits, without care for how uncomfortable it might be-he's too tired, dropping off to a dreamless sleep as soon as he closes his eyes.

Flags mark the border road separating the two kingdoms, but he finds it curious that for two countries with unfriendly relations, there are no guardposts. He doesn't travel the land often, but border guards are everywhere, be they land or sea. They're the first line of defense.

He gets his answer to why soon after crossing the border into Camelot.

As he tops a ridge, a castle lies nestled in the valley below. The masons that built it must have dragged that dark stone from miles away; none of the rocky outcroppings nearby show the same color. The banners, red with a black crest he can't quite make out, are a shock of color against the dark walls.

From this vantage point, Killian can't make out much of what's happening in the keep; there's a few plumes of smoke, possibly from the blacksmith or kitchens, but even up here he should hear chickens or horses, hear the men at arms.

Come to think of it, the woods around him are deathly quiet as well.

_Wild things are the first to flee when there's something unnatural afoot._

He decides to climb a tree, giving himself some cover, before taking out his spyglass to get a better look. Pressing it to his eye, he sweeps over the castle; it looks as lifeless as it sounds but for the smoke plumes. _Strange… a keep as large as this should have at least sixty men at arms, and the staff to keep it running..._ He turns towards the back of the castle, where the walls vanish into the trees. Behind those walls aren't stables or outbuildings for the keep, as one might expect, but what appears to be a lush garden.

Killian folds the spyglass with a snap, a plan formulating in his mind. Those trees grow closer to the walls than other lords might allow, which-when compiled with the lack of men at arms-means this castle relies largely on its isolation for protection. If he sneaks in the back, he can enter the keep from the gardens and begin his search for the bird there-

A rattle of wagon wheels on the road below gains his attention. As he fumbles to open his spyglass once more, the distant sound of voices drifts up from the valley below. Killian finds his mark with the glass, watching as a man leads a donkey-led wagon up the road to the castle gate. A woman lies in the wagon bed, her blue dress stark against the straw. A young boy sits next to her, holding her hand; even with the glass, Killian can't see the woman's expression, but he recognizes the posture of the boy.

A boy worried his mother would die.

"At least I know I'm at the right castle," Killian murmurs.

He follows the small family's progress up to the gates. The man beats on the heavy doors with his fist; for a long moment, Killian worries that there really  _isn't_  anyone working in the castle, the knocks will go unheeded-but then the doors open, slowly, and with no sign of guards behind them.

Doors that large would need at least two strong men on either side to open them.

"What the hell is going on in there?" he asks, folding up his spyglass once more as the small family enters the castle gates.

The gates close as soon as the wagon clears the entryway, leaving the valley still and silent once more. Killian leans forward on the tree branch and keeps a careful eye on the land as he mulls over a half-arsed plan. It's past noon, the sun following its downward arc to the western horizon. He wants to be over the castle walls before nightfall, wants to give himself the best chance to search for what he needed and good hiding places while the castle's supposed inhabitants sleep. If he doesn't find anything by the time the scullery maid wakes the rest of the servants, well, that's what the hiding places are for.

And then to wait it out until the next night to continue his search.

Everything about this plan is terrible and he certainly doesn't have enough supplies, which means he'll also have to steal during the night and  _bloody hell_ , Liam's going to doubly kill him for going into this half-cocked and no real exit plan in mind.

_Oh hell, I'll have time to make up an exit plan_.

It's a long walk to where the castle walls vanish into the trees; he stops often to wait and watch, checking to make sure there were no men at arms, no soldiers, not even poaching traps in the woods. Animal sounds never return and there are plenty of wild berries left untouched; Killian finds they make a nice balance to the dried meat he keeps in his belt purse. It's tougher than usual to eat and he chalks it up to nerves: the unnatural silence in the woods keeps him on alert and only serves to solidify his belief that there's something  _wrong_ in the castle.

Once he reaches the wall he follows it, scouting to see if there are any hidden caches of guards posted, but also to see how far back the grounds go; there's a stream he has to cross at one point, one that empties from inside the castle walls, but when he looks to see if it's a suitable entrance point he's met with disappointment: the archway that allows the stream passage isn't tall (nor is the stream deep) and a sturdy metal grate covers the opening. Not far from the stream is the corner of the wall, the dark stone veering off into the forest again.

_Isolated, no guards, and bloody enormous. Who needs this much space when they have no one to staff it?_

He backtracks to the stream to refill his water flask, then makes the decision of which tree to scale to cross the wall. It's a sturdy oak, its branches thick and reaching beyond the wall; Navy life has kept him fairly trim, but Killian hopes that if a branch snaps under him then it at least has the decency to drop him over the wall first.

It doesn't, blessedly, but once on the wall he comes to a problem he should have considered before: how to get down.

And this leads to another: how is he going to get back over the wall with this bird?

He can almost hear Liam's mocking voice as he looks for soft shrubbery to jump into:  _Oh, just thought you'd waltz out the front gates, prize in hand, did you? This is why you need to think before acting, little brother!_

"Younger brother," Killian mutters under his breath.

He's in it now, though, and he'll figure out how to escape later. He sits on the edge of the wall, then dangles from it, grunting with the effort and strain as the stone bites into his hands; he takes a breath and drops to the bushes twenty feet below.

Pain shoots up his legs when his feet strike the ground a half-second before his arse; the bushes do little to cushion the fall and rip holes and tears in his clothes. Unthinking, he lets out a litany of curses, blaspheming against every god between here and Arendelle, and when he runs out of those he curses himself for being the biggest idiot in all the realms.

The faint sound of voices, however, makes him shut up fast. Grunting with the effort and pain, Killian rolls out of the bushes and hits the ground, stumbling to his feet and heading for the cultivated forest inside the wall to hide-and eavesdrop if he can.

The ground litter rustles under his feet; he dives under another bush, this one less prickly, and prays for a wind to pick up and hide any further noise he might make. He runs through another list of curses as he waits and wishes he had received as much training for ambushes on land as he had at sea.

One of the voices climbs higher as they speak, though the speaker, and their companion, is too far away to hear anything distinct. One of the voices yells and then there's a splash, as if something or someone has been tossed into a deep body of water. There's a squawking sound and then he hears the distinct sound of footsteps growing closer and his only thought is ' _Are they going to find me?_ '

He lies still, hardly breathing, as the searcher wanders through his patch of forest. His imagination runs wild in this time, imagining all sorts of gruesome ways the lord of this castle might see fit to punish an intruder.

_Everyone knows the lords of border holdings are so far removed from their kingdoms' capitals that they can act as kings themselves_.

As he conjures a twisted image of being dunked in boiling oil, the footsteps retreat. Killian breathes easier, the horrific images in his mind fading away for another time. He gives it another few minutes, letting his breathing and his heart rate resume their normal pace, and crawls out from under the bush, picking leaves out of his ponytail as he goes.

The trail is clear, broken branches and scuffs in the ground indicating where the searcher went, and Killian follows it; the castle is ahead, and perhaps he can find the other water source for a reference point.

And it all would have worked out perfectly, but for the large bird that decided to ambush him.

* * *

She struggles against the grip on her wings, hissing and twisting her head to bite her captor's hands, but to no avail: he's had her captive for too long to not know her tricks and he's well-acquainted with her penchant for biting. He carries her to her pond, all but throwing her in when they reach the shore, and she stretches her wings, making the landing more graceful than it otherwise could have been. Hell-bent, she turns in the water and paddles for shore, murder in her heart directed at this man, her captor, her slaver.

Lord Rumpelstiltskin.

Once on the ground she squawks and throws her wings outward, white light enveloping her as the feather cloak falls to the ground and leaves her- _truly_ her, Princess Emma, captive, cursed, and currently infuriated-looking eye-to-eye with his lordship. "I could have  _saved_ her," Emma hisses.

"It's always of a piece with you, your highness," Lord Rumpelstiltskin retorts, his musical voice making her title a mockery. "You complain when I make you use your gift-"

"Curse."

"-you complain when I don't," he continues as if she hasn't spoken. "You complain when they have something of value to trade."

" _Steal_  in one of your  _deals_ ," she spits.

"You complain when I send them packing," the lord says, his voice growing sterner. "Really, highness, you might want to make up your mind. For your information, you couldn't have saved her, because there was nothing wrong with her. Perhaps if you'd spend less time making your silly little swan complaints, you'd actually hear these petitioners and the silly little sob stories they concoct for my help."

" _My_ ," Emma says, her voice rising. " _My_  help!"

"Ah, but it's not  _you_ they ask, is it dearie?"

She hates his smile. It reminds her of the drawings she'd once seen in her mother's library, one of the zoological ones with creatures from a far warmer climate than Misthaven's.  _Crocodiles_ , they were called, nasty things with a bite so powerful that once they grabbed hold they never let go. Lord Rumpelstiltskin bends down and picks up her cloak, shaking out some of the dirt and leaves picked up by the feathers. "I'm the lord with the magic bird," he says, "the one who can cure all that ails them-within reason, of course, and often for a price."

He throws the cloak over her shoulders and white light bursts in the clearing again as she transforms once more; the shift from human to bird always leaves her more discombobulated than the reverse, so she can't fight it when he lifts her and throws her back into the pond. She lands hard and comes up shrieking and spluttering. "All magic comes with a price,  _dearie_ , and after all I've paid for you I feel it's only fair to demand some in return," Lord Rumpelstiltskin says, and stalks off into the arboretum.

Emma shakes some of the water from her feathers and paddles around the pond to calm down, grumbling all the while. She has no idea why Rumpelstiltskin has decided to go wandering in the trees and she doubts he'll tell her; in all the time he's held her captive she's only ever seen him near her pond. Most of the time he's holed up in the castle with his stolen treasures, gloating and cackling to himself, or in the library trying to learn magic from the spellbooks he's managed to acquire.

Emma thinks he's been lucky to have acquired a castle that's already been enchanted; she's said so out loud before, after the fifth time she'd watched him turn a quill to ash, and since then she's been banished to the garden where she's at least afforded some privacy.

Until some other hapless commoner comes stumbling through the gates, pleading for his life.

After her sixth turn around the pond, Rumpelstiltskin stalks by, hunched over and brisk in his irritation. She sticks her tongue out when his back is to her and paddles for the shore. He'll be in the castle for the rest of the evening and she'll raid the kitchens later. If she's lucky, this was their last interaction for the day.

If she's not, she's in for a long night.

She shakes the water from her feathers when she goes ashore, irritated at the weight around her neck but resigned to it. The gold collar in this form is represented as two gold bracelets when she's human, one on each wrist. It's a symbol of her captivity, but also the reason she can't just take flight and leave for home; it's enchanted to the castle and if she tries to leave, it... well, it hurts. She's not entirely sure how it causes so much pain and through so much of her body, but Emma only had to attempt escape once to discover she never wished to experience it again.

She stopped counting the days long ago, unsure anymore how long it's been since that day she was taken from her family.

Giving her tail feathers another shake, she waddles further to where her favorite place to rest is: a little enclosed area of the garden surrounded by flowering bushes. She's smuggled some non-magical books out here, covered by an oiled cloth to keep off the wet; she reads in human form, but the space is small and she has no lightsource when the day turns to night, as it is now. She sighs, thinking of another day going by with little mental stimulation, and ponders flying back to the castle to eat something before turning in early.

A distinct branch-snapping sound catches her ear and has her whipping her head around toward the arboretum-something is  _moving_ in the trees. No other animals live in the area but her-she'd once hoped to find birds, company and a comforting reminder of her mother's aviary, but to no avail-but it's large, whatever it is, and it's coming this way.

Emma takes flight, intent on striking first; this long on her own, in hostile territory, she's come to realize the only person she can trust or depend on is herself. So when the figure emerges, she shrieks a battle cry and beats her wings mercilessly at his head.

_It's a man_ , she realizes after he yelps, throwing up his arms to protect his face. She gets one good peck on his ear before dropping back, landing in front of him. There's never been another man here before, the castle largely running itself and the few servants it requires are female. Only Rumpelstiltskin comes out to the garden; it's her place, her prison, and Emma has never even seen this man as a petitioner asking for help. She nibbles at his worn and torn breeches, curious as to why he's here and what he's been through to be in such as state as he is: clothes clearly once well cared for but now in a shabby state of disrepair, dark hair and beard longer than is fashionable, and his skin bearing marks of injury despite the sword and belt-knife at his waist both showing plenty of signs of being well-used. She croons a question, waddling around to inspect the sword's sheath, when the man speaks.

"You're coming with me."

He reaches for her and Emma squawks, outraged. She beats him with her wings again, biting and snapping at every part of him she can reach. He's not prepared for her temper and yelps again as he shields his face. She forces him back and back, until he trips over a stone and lands hard on his backside, crying out in pain. Satisfied she has him stunned for the moment, she throws up her wings and sheds swan form, reaching for his belt-knife and holding it to his throat before he can react.

His breath hitches, his eyes going wide as he realizes either there's a woman on top of him or a knife at his throat-possibly both. "Bloody hell," he says, swallowing hard.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't gut you with your own knife," Emma says, fury boiling through her skin.

"Y-you're a woman," is all he can say and it takes everything in her not to roll her eyes.

"Yes, a damsel in distress under a magic spell to keep her in animal shape, it's all a fairy tale, isn't it? Except the part where I have a knife to your throat; fairy stories always leave these parts out."

One of his eyebrows quirks up and he flashes a rather disarmingly charming smile. Emma blinks, bemused, and then he's moving-knocking her arm up and aside, twisting the blade from her hand as he rolls them both until he's got her pinned underneath him and both her arms are pinned over her head. "Fairy stories also leave out the parts where the dashing rescue is just a happy accident."

Emma grits her teeth and shifts her legs up; he's done the foolish thing, straddling her to keep her down and leaving his manhood ripe for assault. The man spits a curse as his grip on her wrists loosens and she rolls them again, taking the knife once more and pinning his arms down in a position that will hurt if he tries to push her off. "Or the parts where the knight in shining armor is an ass. You're not here to rescue me at all. You're just a common thief."

She glares at him, silently demanding he try to deny it. He holds her gaze for a long moment, his eyes a startling blue. His brows twitch, furrowing, and then his face relaxes as he looks away. "Would it make things easier if I admit I have a good reason for it?"

"No," Emma says. Then, "Maybe."

"If I ask nicely, would you please release me so I may explain?"

"No."

"Not a very trusting lass are you?" She glares at him again and he sighs. "Fine. My brother is ill, deathly so. There's no cure I can find in this realm or any other, and we've traversed far and wide. But when I heard tale of a man with a magic bird-"

"-you thought you'd steal this bird for yourself. To cure your brother," Emma finishes. "How noble."

It's his turn to glare at her. "Liam is all I have left in this world. Everything I have, everything I am, I owe that to him. Is it not the least payment I can give, to find a way to save his life?"

She remains silent, remembering her mother's lessons on diplomacy and decorum: often, saying nothing at all is best. Instead, she climbs off of him, releasing his arms and allowing him to sit up properly. He brushes off the dirt and leaves from his tattered clothes and she mutely hands back his knife. After he's sheathed it, she meets his eyes. "Your quest is futile," she says quietly. "I can't leave this castle, as much as I wish to. If you'd brought your brother here-"

"He can't leave our ship, he'll die," the man argues. "It had to be me, alone. I move faster alone, it was less conspicuous that way. No one thinks much of a lone swordsman, anyway."

Emma looks to the ground, her hands folded in her lap. "Still, I can't leave. I'm bound here. Imprisoned with magic I can't break, much as I've tried. My own magic is bound by the curse put on me, the same curse you seek to use to heal your brother."

"I don't understand," the man says. "Truth told, there's much about this I don't understand. You're a woman but also a bird, you're imprisoned with magic yet you possess magic, and yet all of it is useless because of a curse? You have to admit, love, it's all a bit hard to swallow."

Emma smiles bitterly. "Perhaps I should start at the beginning, then.

"My name is Emma, Heir Apparent to Her Majesty Queen Snow White of Misthaven, Princess of the Enchanted Forest. Years ago-and truthfully, I've lost track at this point, the seasons here don't change-I was kidnapped from my family's country estates. We were hosting an engagement party for my brother. My parents hosted all sorts of nobles and family friends for this occasion and there were days of events planned.

"One day, I joined the men and the hounds on the hunt. It was a lovely day for hunting, I remember that much. Leo was thrilled when he took down a stag-less so when he had to walk back to the house, his prize slung over his horse's back.

"The last thing I remember of that day is taking my manservant with me in pursuit of-something. I'd heard something crashing through the forest and thought it large enough to outrank my brother's prize-I am older, after all, and as someone with a brother you may understand something of a sibling rivalry over petty things," Emma says, and looks up to see the man smile wanly.

"Anyway, that's all I remember. I went off into the forest and the next thing I knew I was here. The first thing I did was try to escape; there are only two maids working in the castle and I thought it simple enough to flee through the gates." Emma stares bitterly at her golden shackles. "These bracelets are enchanted. I can't remove them without the key and if I attempt to leave they cause me so much pain, I black out.

"I tried to use my magic to send a message to my parents, let them know I was alive. I've had magic since I was born, I was trained by the best, and yet a simple message was beyond my reach. I thought it the bracelets at first, but only until Lord Rumpelstiltskin explained the terms of the curse he put on me. My own magic interfered with the curse, so it bound my power deep within me-also as a safeguard. The curse is dark magic and mine is light. It would naturally break such a curse, if only it were free.

"As for how I become a bird, well." Emma picks up her feather cloak, stolen from some poor swan who now lived life somewhere in confusion and fury as a woman. Swan maidens were never to be trifled with, but somehow Lord Rumpelstiltskin had tricked one out of its magic cloak. "His lordship enjoys putting on a show, making things seem larger and grander than they actually are. It's hardly a song worth singing if it's just a woman who can heal any illness, but a bird? That creates talk. The more talk, the more poor souls come here begging for clemency, the richer and more powerful Lord Rumpelstiltskin becomes.

"And the longer my imprisonment lasts."

"I don't understand," the man says. "How does he become more rich and powerful if you heal people?"

Emma smiles bitterly. "He makes deals. Sometimes he allows me to heal someone without payment. Sow goodwill or something. But others… I don't know how he knows which ones have things of value to trade, but he always does and he always gets his way. The bracelets keep me from healing these people, he makes me refuse until these people give up their most valued possessions. And worst of all are the ones who have nothing of value to trade and his lordship is just in a foul mood that day. Like today, he claims this woman's family lied about what ailed her. He sent them away. He sent them off to leave those children motherless and their father out of work and-"

She breaks off, looking away and letting her hair fall in front of her face to shield her tears. Even after so long, she hates that she's still so affected by something she doesn't want, never asked for. Her mother would call it empathy, her natural desire to see and do good for others, but Emma hates that it makes her seem weak. She hates that it makes her seem vulnerable and more susceptible to Lord Rumpelstiltskin's machinations.

There's little about her situation she does not hate.

"What if I made you a deal?" the man asks.

Emma rolls her eyes, swiping dampness from her cheeks as she does so. "I'm so  _sick_ of deals-"

"A bargain, then. Call it what you like, but we need each other. I have a ship. I can get you out of here and back home,  _if_ you help my brother."

She eyes him suspiciously. " _You_  can get me out of here," she repeats.

"I came in looking to steal something and I rather dislike leaving a job half done," he says with a crooked grin. "We steal the keys, sink the shackles in the lake, and be on our way before his lordship knows you're missing. You'll be back with your family in a season."

She looks him over again and wonders just how much he's thought this half-baked plan of his over. For all this young man carries a sword, he's not built like a knight; though he's lithe enough to be some nimble thief. It might work in his favor, particularly as she's never seen her jailer with any weapons at all. And coupled with her knowledge of the castle's interior, they might be able to pull this off quickly. She's not sure when Lord Rumpelstiltskin would discover her absence, nor if he might come after her, and says so.

Her would-be rescuer merely shrugs. "Try something new, darling. It's called trust."

She hasn't trusted anyone but herself in ages, hasn't been able to. She doesn't know if she can trust this stranger, not fully, though this temptation to see her family again after so long has her heart aching with homesickness. And if her own half-baked escape plans haven't yet come to fruition, who's to say that this one won't?

"Do you swear?" she whispers. "Swear to me that we'll both be free of this place, that you'll take me home to my family, and I swear I will help your brother."

He holds out his hand and she places hers in it. His hand is warm and she realizes with a jolt that this is the first time in years she's touched someone who wasn't ill or dying or forcing her to do magic against her will. His thumb brushes across her knuckles in a soothing way. "I have nothing to swear by by my own name, and my brother's. He'd say that we're men of honor, though, so that should be enough. So, princess, I swear to you, in the name of the brothers Jones, that I will free you and that you will see your family again."

And then he brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her fingers-not above them or onto his own thumb, as courtiers might, but his lips on her skin, and warmth floods her body at this gesture that is too familiar and yet curiously comforting. Emma jerks her hand away, confused at her reaction, and nods. She stands and tucks her feather cloak over her arm. "Well then, Jones, we'd best get moving."

"Killian, actually."

"What?"

She looks back and he gives an awkwardly gallant bow, sweeping and silly as it is. She covers her mouth to hide her smile and he grins. "Killian Jones, at your service, milady. Now, let's go burgle a castle."

* * *

If the original plan to break into the castle was half-baked, this one hardly has all the ingredients stirred in. As he follows Princess Emma-a  _princess_ , bloody hell-through the overgrown garden, Killian can practically hear his brother shouting him down for thinking with his cock rather than his brain. Which is not the case, actually, because this happens to be a mutually beneficial partnership: Emma needs a ship to get to her family and he needs Emma to get to his ship to heal his family.

The fact that the princess is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen just happens to be a bonus.

One that may have factored slightly into him rushing into this plan.

Only slightly.

She leads him in through the kitchen garden. Inside, there are several cold pasties on a platter, and the princess takes one and eats it with her bare hands, indicating he should as well. No use thieving on an empty stomach, and it gives him enough time to pause and think that they should pack up some provisions for the road.

Emma proves knowledgeable about almost every nook and cranny in the area and they manage to find not only a suitable bag to stuff full of food, but also a large carving knife she claims she can wield with ease if necessary. He's doubtful at first, judging by the size, but then remembers the magnificent way she had him pinned with his own blade to his throat; she moved as if the knife were an extension of her arm. A larger blade wouldn't matter to someone with skill like that. She tucks it in her own bag that also holds her feather cloak; when he asks, she claims it may come in use for a disguise on the road.

They each take another pasty, then some of the cider in the icebox, and Emma leads him into the keep. "He has a workroom just for magic," she says, keeping her voice down. Their path takes them through unlit halls, but she seems to know the way without a torch. "If there's anywhere his lordship would keep magic keys, it would be there."

"What if he's in the workroom?" Killian asks.

She makes a noise, frustrated and unsure, then says, "Lord Rumpelstiltskin doesn't have much magic of his own. What magic he does possess is… stolen, I believe is the most appropriate word. He spends more of his time locked in the library or at his spinning wheel. He says it helps him think. When he's done thinking, he goes to the workroom to ruin perfectly useful magical tools, but that won't be until much later in the night. The maids are gone then, you see, no one to watch him fail."

"Except you," he points out.

She's quiet. "I'm the key to his power, but I'm not important. Not in that way. I can't leave, not like the maids. If I see him fail, who can I tell?" There's another pause, then she says, "There's stairs up ahead, watch your step."

The workroom is on the third floor. It's quiet, seemingly empty, and it all sets Killian's nerves on edge. It's also unlocked, which- "I don't trust this," he whispers.

"Don't frown at good fortune."

There's a fire in the hearth throwing the room into warm relief. Books and magical artifacts are scattered across the tables that line the walls. There's a large, heavy table in the center of the room with a massive tome laying open on the surface. Killian glances over it as they pass, noting the language to be runic in nature. Emma bypasses all of it in favor of inspecting the wall. She hums as she looks, murmuring under her breath as she paces back and forth. "This is far from home," he murmurs, running his finger along the script. "Bad Lord Rumpelstiltskin, this is rock troll magic."

"Arendelle," Emma says, sounding distracted.

"Yes. And-" Killian pauses, bending closer to read the script. "Your highness."

"What?"

"Emma, look-"

"I can't read Arendelle runes-"

Killian spins the book towards her and points to the drawing on the page. "It's not about reading, it's looking. Look at this."

She pauses and turns back. "It's a stone."

He nods and palms a similar-looking stone that lay on the table next to the book. "A specific type of stone. Rock trolls specialize in memory magic; this says that stones hold magic for a long period of time, and when the memory spell is activated it-"

"-swaps the spell for the memories, yes. It's a handy little spell."

Killian whirls, hand going to his sword. A man stands in the doorway, fingers steepled and a sinister smile on his face; his fingers twitch and Killian's hand flies away from the hilt, his arm twisting behind his back by its own volition. Emma shouts something as he cries out, feeling the bones strain under some unseen pressure. And just as he feels his entire arm is going to break, it stops.

As he falls to his knees, breathless from pain, Lord Rumpelstiltskin steps around Killian as if he's hardly there. "Well, dearie, I always thought you had spunk, but I never thought you were stupid. Didn't those meddling fairies ever teach you not to snoop in a sorcerer's study?"

"You're hardly a sorcerer,  _Lord_ Rumpelstiltskin," Emma says, her voice like acid as she circles the table to stay away from him. "You're some hedgewitch with a few stolen tricks up his sleeves."

"Really? Can a hedgewitch do  _this_?" Killian's body snaps up, his toes dangling mere inches from the ground as he struggles to breathe. Rumpelstiltskin's smile widens, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth. "I knew I heard something in the garden earlier. A little mouse, perhaps, but this is certainly a surprise. A rather large mouse who seems to be intent on stealing what's mine."

Killian struggles against an invisible grip. His hands scramble at his throat in futility, the edges of his vision going dark. Metal pings against the floor behind him. "I'm not a  _thing_  to be owned," Emma snaps.

"No, not yet," Rumpelstiltskin says. "But the memory stone your mouse friend discovered would have changed you enough that calling you anything else would be too humanizing. After our little disagreement earlier, I thought we might get on better if you had less… sympathy for our visitors."

The sound Emma makes is more animal than human, a snarling sound that may be more terrifying if he wasn't so close to fainting. There's a flurry of white, and Killian collapses to the floor. He inhales too quickly, coughing as he tries to sit up and understand what's happening. There's a squawking sound and a rustle of feathers, and where he's afraid to see if Emma has somehow been turned into a swan once more, he sees her standing next to the bird, her golden shackles around its neck. "Princess, is that-?"

"Killian, grab the stone from the work table, quickly. The change is disorienting the first few moments, we need to remove his memories now before he tries to attack."

She sounds cold and calculating, much more like what he imagines royalty to be, and he obeys without question. He listens to her instructions and holds the memory stone out; it's warm in his palm, emitting a pulse that causes gooseflesh to ripple up his skin, and it gives him an odd sensation like he's watching himself from outside his own body. "It's not quite like working it yourself," Emma says quietly as she watches the purple magic swirl. "But stones allow even non-magic users to work the spells in them."

The stone's glow fades, the spell complete. Emma carefully picks up the swan that was once Lord Rumpelstiltskin and carries him into the hall; she opens a shuttered window and sets him on the ledge. "He'll figure out how to fly eventually," she says quietly.

"Princess?" Killian stands in the doorway, rubbing his throat. She's still, standing at the window and looking down at the swan on the windowsill. He sees her fingers flex and clench, barely visible from under her voluminous sleeves. He takes a step forward, tentatively reaching out. "Emma?" he asks softly.

She starts when he touches her elbow, as if she'd forgotten he was there. She looks at him, her eyes searching his for a long moment, then goes back down the stairs. "I'll explain on the road, we need to go. There's a storeroom on the way out, we'll grab anything else we need there. I just-I need to get out of here. Please."

He doesn't understand, has hardly pieced together what's happened in the last ten minutes, but he swore to her on his name that he'd get her home. There will be plenty of time on the road to talk, and the sooner they get going, the more distance they can put between them and the castle before it gets too dark to travel. "Alright, your highness. Let's get you home."

* * *

She claims fatigue when they make camp for the night. And it's true, she is tired. It's been a difficult day, long and full of ups and downs, and finally gaining her freedom? She'd been so relieved when they stepped outside of the castle walls that she'd nearly wept.

She can tell Killian wants to talk, wants to know what happened back at the castle, but for now Emma wants to savor her freedom and sleep.

It's not until after they've broken camp and started on their way the next morning that she explains. "I'm sorry," she says, picking her way around ruts in the road. "There wasn't time to plan or explain anything, I just-there were old escape plans I'd tried and discarded for various reasons. Most of them always needed another person, a distraction, and I-I apologize for using you in such a way."

Killian glances at her sidelong. "Did you plan on using me as such?"

She shakes her head, tucking hair behind her ear. "No. I thought- _hoped_ -it would be simple, but when Rumpelstiltskin had you, I just… Once I had the keys, I acted on impulse."

She looks towards him shyly, wary of his response, but he's quiet. There's a thoughtful look on his face as he puts the pieces together. "You dropped them on the ground once you were free," he says. "I heard something hit the ground."

"Yes."

One corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile. "Clever, really, trapping him in the same manner in which he'd trapped you."

She shrugs. "I don't know how clever it really is. I don't know what will happen to him, if anyone will puzzle it together, but I'm the one who still carries a curse. The worst that will happen to him is he'll just live out his days as a bird."

They walk for a time without saying anything; Emma passes the time by trying to identify the local flora and fauna to see just how far from home she's been for all this time. She's slightly rusty, she realizes, having spent so long in the company of books pertaining to magic and the ingredients used for potions and spellwork. She could brew a handy shrinking potion-and its antidote-in a handful of days at this point, but the various birds in this land are removed enough from Misthaven's to confuse her. Trees are a bit better, as are the shrubs and ferns along the road, but it's another thing to make her miss home and realize just how long she's been away.

She looks up when Killian asks something. "Come again?"

His lips twitch. "I asked if you had a plan to counteract the curse, since you had so long to ingrain escape plans that they came to you as second nature."

"Oh." She shrugs again. "Well, my mother is friend to the fairies. I figure if nothing else fairy magic can counter dark magic."

"What if it doesn't work?"

She purses her lips. "I can't let myself think that."

It's true, fairy magic can counter just about anything. Only the darkest magic can withstand the magic of a fairy. Emma was trained by the Blue Fairy, taught the rules of goodness and light, and if fairy magic can't break her curse… Well, she doesn't want to think about that. "What about True Love's Kiss?" Killian asks and Emma almost chokes. "What?" he asks, bewildered. "You don't have some knight or prince pining away at home for you?"

She laughs. "You're confusing me with my brother Leo. He's only a year younger and much more interested in marrying than I've ever been. He's-gods, I have no idea how long he's been married, but he'll have been named heir, I suppose, and his wife should have borne him children by now. Strange, I've never considered…" She shakes her head. "No, Goodman Jones, there's no one pining for me. And if there had been, I should hope they stopped long ago, for their own sake."

It's his turn to shake his head. "Still, even if the fairies can't break your curse, there's always hope. True Love's Kiss can break any curse."

Emma smiles, but says nothing. She knows this; she'd been raised from the cradle on the story of her parents' romance, the kiss that saved her mother's life and started a revolution to win their kingdom back from the Evil Queen. She'd dreamed of such a love when she was a girl, but growing up and being shown off like a prized cow at the fair had taken the shine off of such notions. Love at her station is rare, and True Love is rarest of all.

Just because she was born of True Love doesn't mean she believes she can find it for herself.

They don't stop for lunch, choosing to eat as they walk to make better time. Killian tells her about the kingdom they're in, run by a formidable queen called Merida. Emma recalls meeting her once, long ago, and mostly remembers being impressed with her skills as an archer. Queen Snow had held her own against the girl, but it had been a near thing. She's sorry to hear of the king's passing, but their easy travel now through Queen Merida's kingdom speaks highly of her ability to rule.

It also helps her place where she's been held prisoner for so long; Misthaven is far from DunBroch, several days by land and more at sea. She's more grateful than ever that she'd agreed to help Killian in exchange for passage on his ship; with nothing to offer but herself as payment, she'd never be able to book passage home.

A thought occurs to her when they bed down for the night, another campfire casting a circle of warmth around them. "How is it that you and your brother happen to have a ship?"

Killian is quiet for a long time, idly whittling down a stick into tinder for later. She watches from her bed of moss, feeling comfortable and tired, but her brain racing with curiosity. "We're former navy," he says finally. "My brother's captain, I'm his first mate."

"'His first mate' is an odd title," she says.

He doesn't glare at her, per say, but he does give her a look that's close to it. "Lieutenant Jones,  _your highness_ ," he says, sarcasm dripping from her own title.

She giggles despite herself, and he smiles. "I apologize for earlier, then. I called you Goodman Jones."

"It doesn't matter."

She shrugs. "As you say." Pulling her travel cloak up around her more snugly, she rolls over, warming her back and tricking her eyes to thinking it's fully dark. "Good night, Lieutenant."

"Good night, princess."

* * *

They're making good time. It's not as fast as his solo journey had been, but Emma is surprisingly hardy and he's impressed every time she waves off his concern and presses on. There was an incident yesterday involving a thorn bush and Emma's white dress had come off on the losing side of it, but she'd merely shrugged, asked for his belt knife, and cut her long sleeves back to the elbow and her skirts now fell to her knees. She's resourceful, keeping the ruined cloth back for bandages in case of an emergency, and she's an excellent conversationalist-not that he would expect less of a lady, but she hasn't shied from any of their topics of discussion yet.

Of course, the moment he thinks they're making good time is when it all goes to hell.

A thick fog rolls through the valley on their eighth day, soaking them to the bone and making the otherwise amicable companions irritable and coarse. Emma runs into three tree branches before she snaps, angry tears on her face as she sits in the dirt in disgust. "I'm not moving until this clears," she declares.

"Princess, you're in the middle of the road, some drunken sod is going to roll over you with a carriage."

"Let him! I'll be damned if I have to put up with this-this  _ridiculous_ foolishness any longer! There are bugs and the food is going bad, I haven't been properly clean in days, and if I have to spend one more night sleeping with the snakes I'm going to  _scream_!"

Killian glances around, worry gnawing at his gut. He's miserable in this godsforsaken fog as well, and he could do with a proper bed and a bath as well, but he knows that he won't get any of those things if they don't keep moving. He also knows that if it weren't for the damp and the chill, or the branches she'd hit her head on, her spirits would be in better condition. He tries not to turn much as he attempts to get his bearings, not wanting to accidentally go back the way they came, when a gust of wind rifles through his hair.

The wind parts the fog enough to show a clear path down to a cabin, clean and well-kept and firelight making the windows glow. "On your feet, highness, I may have a solution," he mutters, reaching for her hand and hauling her up.

She protests, but stops when she sees the cabin. "They're so far out of the way, what if-" Emma stops herself and Killian knows the sentiment she's going for. Woods people like this keep to themselves and often don't have much to share with travelers.

"We have to try, if only to get out of this sodding fog and feel somewhat better."

He doesn't quite drag her to the door, but it's a near thing. The older woman who answers his knock is a wary creature, her face weathered and lined from long hours spent outdoors. Killian smiles, hoping charm might work more than pleading for clemency. "Apologies, madam, for disturbing you on this night, but the fog-"

"My bairn took ill, stranger," the woman retorts. Her eyes are hard and he notes her clothes are dark, almost mourning colors. "The pox. Ifin ye want to live t' see any bairns of yourn, best take chance with the fog."

She moves to close the door and Emma steps forward. "Wait."

To Killian's immense surprise, the woman listens; he watches her take in Emma's torn and stained dress, her smutched cheeks from the angry outburst earlier, and he wonders what this stranger must think of their situation. He shifts uncomfortably, unsure of where to start if he's called to defend himself. Emma holds out her hand. "I'm-I'm a healer," she tells the woman. "Please, if I can cure your child, may we beg shelter for the night?"

The woman stares for a long time. Weariness battles with the damp in Killian's bones and he doesn't care if all they get is a pile of hay in the shed, he wants to feel dry. Finally, the door opens wider, revealing a pallid boy in a rough-hewn bed piled high with quilts, his cheekbones stark on his face, with spots covering every patch of skin they see. Killian takes a step back on instinct alone, knowing full well that any disease carrying spots is often fatal, but Emma steps towards the boy. "What's his name?" she asks quietly.

"Hamish. I'm Leslie."

Even from here he can see it's gone on too long, that it's entirely possible there may be little Emma can do for the child, but she goes to Hamish's bedside regardless and kneels. From the doorway Killian watches as she smooths his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead and lifts a hand from under the quilts.

The air feels heavy, not from the fog, but with something that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Hamish begins to cough, a heaving, wracking thing that makes Killian's lungs ache. Leslie rushes to his other side, helping him sit up to breathe better and holding a handkerchief to his mouth. Emma doesn't move during this, her eyes closed and Hamish's hand never leaving hers.

Leslie cries out as Hamish gives one last hacking cough and inhales deeply, sounding like he hasn't breathed so easily in weeks. Killian's eyebrows raise as the spots fade and vanish completely. Leslie cups Hamish's face and then his forehead, rambling the whole time about how his fever has broken, and when Emma releases his hand, mother and son embrace, tears flowing freely down Leslie's face.

Emma sways on her knees and Killian rushes to her side, keeping her upright with steady hands on her shoulders. She lets her head rest against his thigh, a small smile on her face at the scene before them, but her posture is weary.

_Bloody hell_.

They're offered room and even sleeping clothes, the grateful mother insisting  _the lady_ , as she's taken to calling Emma, can't spend the night in little more than damp rags. Hamish has fallen asleep again, easier now and exhausted from the rapid healing, and Leslie bustles about, looking years younger now that she knows her child is well again. Emma doesn't get up, content to kneel at Hamish's bedside, so Killian gets a good look at the cabin interior.

The main room has a loft built in overhead, probably the sleeping quarters, and from the amount of possessions around the room Killian suspects there were once more people living here. The sleeping clothes Leslie presses into his hands confirm that: there's clothing made for both a man and a young woman. He doesn't pry, though, just thanks her for her kindness and urges Emma up the ladder to change.

Leslie goes outside to the well and Killian uses the time alone to change as well. He leaves his clothes draped over a rack in front of the fire to dry, and calls up to Emma to see if she's decent enough for him to join her.

A cough is his answer.

"Get the lady to bed," Leslie orders him, the steely look in her eye returning. "She done the gods' work here tonight, I donna like the though o' her bein' sick under my roof."

Killian nods, bidding their hosts a quiet good night and climbing the ladder.

Emmay lay on the lone bed under what few blankets weren't wrapped around the boy downstairs. She coughs again and rolls onto her side with a groan. "It's freezing," she whispers, burrowing deeper under the blankets.

He hasn't noticed anything different about the temperature-the fire has improved his nature immensely-but goes to lay his hand on her forehead, as his mother did to him as a child.

She's burning up with fever.

"Emma-"

She shakes her head. "I know. I'll be fine. Just-please, get under the bedclothes, you're warm."

She coughs again and turns over towards the empty space beside her. A cloud of butterflies erupts in Killian's stomach, a hundred different scenarios tumbling through his mind, but she's ill and asking for him so he lifts the bedclothes and resists the urge to weep at the thought of not sleeping on the ground or in a tree for the night. Emma almost immediately latches on to him; heat radiates from her but she's shivering hard, her teeth chattering as she does her best to burrow into him.

Killian puts his arms around her awkwardly, rubbing her back in what he hopes is a soothing way. "I hate this," she mumbles into his shirt. "Pox-riddled, meddling, woebegotten  _hedgewitch-_ "

Her curses are swallowed by more coughing, these ones worse than before. Cold fear creeps up the back of his neck as it goes on, sounding as if she's trying to eject her lungs from her body; will this pass on to him? She healed Hamish but became ill herself-far too ill, far too rapidly. What sort of demon sent this pox if it can try to slay a healer? And what sort of chance does he have against it if he catches it?

Weak moonlight filters down through a gap in the rafters, showing more tear tracks on Emma's face-a face now covered in dark spots. Panic grips at his throat at the sight of the spots and it takes every ounce of willpower for him not to fling her aside and run for safety. Only that she's shivering so hard and she can't seem to stop coughing and sweat is soaking through her clothes keeps him where he is. She's sick and no doubt frightened and guilt would gnaw at him if he left her to face it alone.

When the coughing finally stops, Killian drifts into an uneasy doze: Emma's breathing is wheezy and unsteady. She's no longer shivering, the fever rendering her unconscious, but she's mumbling in her sleep and that keeps him aware of her. She doesn't thrash, thank the gods, but the sounds of night terrors seem to be universal. Her body still burns and even he's begun to sweat from the proximity.

It becomes evident that their hosts keep chickens when a rooster crows. Killian swears under his breath, having just fallen into a proper sleep, and cracks one eye open to see how Emma fares.

Her temperature feels normal. The weak light shows the spots have gone and only when he places his hand above her mouth is he convinced she's not dead; in fact, her breathing is regular, with no sign of the congestion that had plagued her earlier in the night.

Questions fill his mind, but sleep pulls at him. All that matters is she's well again, somehow, and the rest they'll figure out come morning.

* * *

After that dreadful night, Emma is pleasantly surprised their hostess is as gracious as she is; surely she was awake the whole night, listening to her cough and cry out with fever dreams. Not only are she and Killian allowed to sleep in (the gods only know how much he'd been up during the night), but Leslie has decided it's both laundry and bath day. She's permitted the first bath, and though she'd love to linger and let the warm water scour the dirt from her skin, she washes quickly and dresses in the clothes their hosts provide. "I wouldna let a cat have kittens on the rags either o' ye were wearing, my lady," Leslie tells her. "The owner o' these won't be missin' them, never ye mind."

Both she and Killian are far better dressed for deep woods travel now, and Emma can't express her gratitude enough. She does her best, though, clumsily helping with the washing after everyone's had their baths while Killian chops firewood and does some mending outside. She wishes they could do more, but Leslie insists her son's life is payment enough. Her help and Killian's brief handiwork is only a bonus.

They set off in the afternoon in much better spirits than the previous night, moving fast to make up for the lost time. "I feel odd wearing a dead girl's clothes," Emma admits after they'd been walking for a few hours.

"You caught that too?" Killian asks.

She nods; the cabin had been far too spacious for just a mother and son, or even parents and one child. "I wonder if the pox took the rest of their family."

He doesn't respond and she holds in a sigh. It hadn't come up before, the part of her curse that made it, well, a  _curse_. "There wasn't an easy way to tell you," she says, before he can ask. " _By the way_ , healing someone means I absorb their illness or disease. I'm sick with it until dawn when the curse resets itself." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, that wasn't appropriate. I should have said something earlier."

He looks at her askance. "I doubt it's something to apologize for, it never did come up in conversation. Will it ever make me ill, too?" She shakes her head. Killian rolls his shoulders back, his hand looped easily around the pommel of his sword. "I suppose now… Well, now I don't know."

She stares at him, brow furrowed. He scratches under his ear, a tell she's picked up on that means he's nervous. "Out with it, Killian."

He doesn't meet her gaze, kicking a rock down the road ahead of them. "Liam," he says quietly. "I don't… I don't know if I would have asked you to help him if I knew…"

"It's part of my curse, Killian. What are you saying, that if you'd known you wouldn't have offered-" Emma cuts herself off, her throat tight with emotion. More than a week of freedom has reminded her why she hated being caged in the first place. The thought of still being bound to Rumpelstiltskin's whims sends a shiver down her spine.

Killian lays a hand on her shoulder, bringing them both to a stop. "Princess-no, Emma. I'm not saying I would have left you to rot. All I'm saying is Liam's illness is-it's complicated. After seeing you so ill with something as common as pox, I'm afraid of what Liam's illness will do to you."

She looks at his hand, then up at him. There's truth in his eyes, eyes that look at her so softly and with a kind smile to match. Her stomach flutters, her face suddenly oddly overwarm, and rather than dwell on the cause she chooses to walk on instead. "So tell me about Liam. I've healed all kinds at this point, perhaps I can offer insight on what it will be like."

The tale he tells is one that would raise anyone's brow, but Emma's grown to know him enough that she trusts the tale he tells is true. Their king sent the Jones brothers to Neverland on a fool's quest-and she knows enough about  _that_ dreadful place to know this tale won't have a happy ending-and now Liam is strung up on the balance because of a mad king's lies. The only thing keeping him alive now is the casks of water in the hold; the men had refilled while the Jones brothers went searching for the dreamshade, and thus a part of Neverland remains near enough for the spring's magic to work. "That's why you said former navy," she says when he's done. "You have no intention of returning to service. You'll mutiny."

Killian shrugs. "Desertion, actually. Mutiny is-nevermind. But dreamshade is an immediate thing, Emma. You didn't see… I thought he'd die. I thought…" He shakes his head. "He's all I have left. Losing him is unacceptable. And to ask you to take that on, to risk your life for his…"

"Hey." Emma reaches out and takes his hand, giving it a squeeze. He looks surprised, then squeezes back. "I'll be fine," she says, smiling. "It's going to be scary and uncomfortable for a time, but once the dawn breaks I'll be fine. It's worked every time thus far and I've healed people who were at Death's door. We can even wait, I'll heal him an hour or so before dawn and lessen the impact."

"Will that work?"

"I can't say for sure. Rumpelstiltskin never let anyone in past sundown." She scowls. "Likely to prolong my suffering, insufferable imp."

Killian gives her hand another squeeze. "Hey. This is a good plan then. If it's never failed before then I believe in you, Emma."

She opens her mouth to respond, but words fail her when he meets her gaze. Her stomach flips over again as she looks over the fringe flopping across his forehead, pieces of hair falling out of his ponytail, and she wonders what combing his hair with her fingers and fixing it for him might feel like. She wonders when this desire welled up within her, what changed between them. She blushes again and drops her gaze, electing to stay quiet than say something that will likely embarrass them both.

Even so, their hands remain entwined as they continue their journey.

* * *

He's falling in love with her.

It's not a realization that comes quickly.

They're on the road more than two weeks before they come across a proper village; with few funds to spare he's prepared to bypass it in favor of continuing their journey. Emma, however, seems determined to interact with humanity and insists on perusing the market, listening to the local gossip. It's there that they learn the innkeeper's family has come down with some sort of illness and it's spreading to others in the village.

Well.

Emma performs her cursed miracles and in exchange they're provided room and a pack of supplies. Killian spends another night awake with a miserably sick princess, holding her while she shivers out the fever and helping her to the chamber pot to vomit what remains in her belly. He's grateful this time, at least, they're afforded privacy. He only sleeps when Emma does, after the dawn, never letting his hold on her loosen and trying not to read into it when he wakes up and she's still curled around him.

Their time on the road is spent trading stories of their vastly different childhoods. He leaves out some of the worst aspects of a childhood of slavery but from the look on her face she knows when he's avoiding or changing a story. They manage to work out how long she'd been held prisoner as well: the Eastern Lands share a common calendar. He'd been two when the Evil Queen had finally been defeated and Emma born later that year. He's five-and-twenty now, so at three-and-twenty she'd been held prisoner for four years. "Gracious. Four birthday balls missed, and my brother's wedding celebrations, and the gods only know what else my mother found to celebrate…" Emma muses, looking stunned that so much time had passed, and yet he could tell she felt relief it had not been longer.

"Not a fan of balls, your highness?"

She gives him the look he's come to recognize as when she wants to laugh but she's pretending to be annoyed. It makes his chest warm. " _You_  get stuffed into a corset and play hostess for hours on end, never letting your smile fade, and see how well  _you_ like it."

He grins and her facade cracks, her eyes twinkling in a delightful way. "Perhaps I will, highness."

It's the second village, and the second trade of healing for room and board, that he realizes the warmth in his chest he feels when she pretends to be annoyed with him, the way he aches when she's ill, and the time he spends trying to cheer her up when she's sad all comes from the fact that he's developing feelings for the princess.

And that— _that_  is a problem.

He holds her closer that night, her current ailment a sleeping sickness that leaves her so still as to be almost dead but for the burning fever, and tells himself princesses don't fall in love with naval deserters. They thank them for a dashing rescue and a voyage home, and find a prince to live happily ever after with.

He tries to ignore the twist in his gut at the image of Emma marrying some faceless prince, and tightens his hold on her before drifting into an uneasy sleep.

After the third village and the directions they get from a thankful innkeeper, Killian announces they'll reach the port where the  _Jewel_ is docked in two days. In a way, he's grateful they're so close; trying to hurry along and worrying about Liam leaves him little time to brood on his growing feelings. But there's a nagging voice in the back of his mind reminding him the sooner they reach the  _Jewel_ , the sooner Emma will leave him.

If she has any particular feelings on the matter she doesn't voice them. Instead, on their last night out on the road, she claims she's cold and makes her sleeping space close to his, nearer to the fire. As he lay down he looks at her, curled on her side and her eyes closed, for all the world asleep. But one arm lay stretched out in front of her, uncharacteristic from the usual way she sleeps in a ball. He reaches out and takes her hand with his; she squeezes lightly, enough to let him know she's not asleep just yet.

And it gives him the smallest bit of hope.

They reach port by the next afternoon and it takes every ounce of willpower not to break into a run when he sees the mast of the  _Jewel_. Emma sticks close to him, grabbing his hand a few times when the crowds get too thick or bawdy. This also keeps him from running to the ship; she seems intimidated by the number of people in this town and he doesn't blame her for it. Even he's not used to a town this size after weeks of travel, and he didn't spend four years practically in isolation.

The crowd helps to slow their pace and they don't reach the docks until after the lamps have been lit. "Permission to board!" Killian yells as they reach the gangplank of the  _Jewel_.

"Hoy, it's Lieutenant Jones!"

"Lieutenant!"

"It's about time, he's been meaner than a bear with a burr-"

"Hold that tongue, man, there's a lady with him."

"A  _lady_?"

They step onto the deck, Killian's men clapping him on the shoulders and managing to stay a respectful distance from Emma; he's glad of that, he's not ready to discipline anyone yet, and only Liam's been confined to the ship these past weeks. "Where is he?" he asks one of the men, Starkey.

Starkey looks exasperated. "Cap'n's in his quarters. I'd go in armed, lad, his temper's never been worse. This lass here to help?"

Killian nods; on the road, he and Emma had decided to keep her lineage quiet. He trusts his men, but men get funny ideas when alone at sea. "Lady Emma Swan, she's a healer, best in all the realms. I've seen her at work, it's a miraculous thing."

Emma makes a most  _un_ ladylike noise at his boasting but gives an impression of a curtsey in her breeches and follows him into the Captain's quarters. He makes sure to close and lock the door behind him.

Liam looks up at the intrusion, pausing whatever he's in the middle of writing, then gets up and crosses the room in two strides, embracing him tightly. "Little brother, you've had me worried sick."

" _Younger_  brother," Killian replies automatically, but slaps Liam on the back in welcome anyway. "I'm sorry, Liam, but it turns out that finding the best healer in all the realms takes time."

He seems to notice Emma finally and Killian steps to the side to allow them to greet each other. "Captain Liam Jones, may I present Princess Emma of Misthaven," Killian says quietly. "I discovered the princess as the unwilling guest of a lord in Camelot. We agreed that her abilities, which were bestowed upon her in a curse, were best served elsewhere and I offered her our services in return for her help."

"Meaning you kidnapped her and we're taking her home once she's healed me," Liam says wryly. "Enchanted, your highness. I hope my wayward brother hasn't been too unpleasant."

He bows over her hand, kissing his thumb instead of her fingers. "You can't kidnap someone willing to leave," Emma says. "Or re-kidnap someone who was already kidnapped. I'm not sure of the language, but be assured that your brother has been nothing but a gentleman and a comfort after a very trying time in my life. I'll be glad to see my family again."

"Indeed," Liam says. "There has been a lot of talk from your kingdom about your safe return."

Killian glares at his brother's meaningful look in his direction, but Emma glides over the hint that he's after any reward. "I'm sure there is, but I haven't heard anything about it, naturally. At this point, I just want to go home. Now, Killian and I spent a long time discussing how to best handle your healing…"

Later, after they've discussed the appropriate time and manner in which to cure Liam, Killian escorts her down to his own cabin, where a bath has been prepared for her. "I didn't know about any reward," he says, still feeling uneasy about Liam's insinuation.

"I know you didn't," Emma replies. "You're a terrible liar, you have all sorts of tells. It's almost to be expected. A missing princess, of course there's a reward for any information, let alone my safe return. And as the Heir the stakes are even higher. My mother's council likely approved it immediately; my parents love me for who I am, but sometimes the council sees me as no more a tool to keep the bloodline going. Like Rumpelstiltskin saw me as the tool to his power."

Her words are bitter and Killian gently turns her to face him. "Not to me," he says. Her face goes slack, her eyes wide. He takes a deep breath to settle his nerves. "You're so much more to me than anything, even a mountain of gold or titles or jewels."

Her mouth opens and closes a few times. "Oh," she manages. "I-oh."

Only the fact that her face burns red keeps him from feeling downhearted. It's a declaration, he knows, and that, coupled with how she didn't outright refuse him, is enough for now. He gives her arm a gentle squeeze. "Go have your bath. Lock the door so you can soak, you've been complaining about mud in your pores for weeks."

Some of her spark comes back and she makes a face at him. He grins, leaving her to it; his own bath awaits in Liam's quarters, along with Liam himself and what feels like an assault of questions about his journey. He answers them all, with some jabs about the lack of privacy, but his brother is quick to remind him that privacy is a luxury. "How soon can we sail for Misthaven?" Killian asks, scrubbing soap in his hair again.

Liam hums, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed. "Day after tomorrow I suppose. Starkey can file with the harbormaster in the morning and I can send for last minute provisions. Misthaven isn't a long journey, we can have the princess home before the month is out."

"Good." Killian dunks his head underwater. When he surfaces, he stands, grabbing a towel. "She's been gone a long time. Which reminds me, how have you been able to keep reports of our whereabouts from reaching the king?"

Liam smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "We changed the name of the ship."

" _Liam_."

"It was the fastest way to ensure secrecy; you're now standing in the Captain's quarters of the  _Jolly Roger_. It's a pirate's term, yes, though we're privateers now, not pirates."

Killian towels off furiously, his heart in conflict. Their plan had been to denounce the king and reveal his terrible plan, but this goes so much further. There's parts of a uniform waiting for him. "And what kingdom sponsors us to earn that title?" he asks, yanking on his breeches with more force than necessary.

Liam only shrugs. "None for now. Perhaps your princess' family will be obliged to help. For now, we're under the guise of merchants. We'll go where we like and spread word that our kingdom is corrupt. We'll find our way, brother, we always do."

Killian pauses, his head halfway though his blouse, then sighs. His brother's right, and more than that he trusts Liam to do what's necessary for their survival. "And you accuse  _me_ of making rash decisions," he grumbles, tucking in his blouse and reaching for his belt.

"It was hardly rash. We waited a full week before we did anything."

Killian snorts as someone knocks on the door. Liam goes to open it, letting Emma in as Killian dons his vest. She stops when she sees him, her eyes widening. "You look…"

He grins, his heart turning over at the thought that she likes the look of him in uniform. "I know," he says with a wink, reaching for a rawhide tie and a comb for his hair.

She makes another face; he sees it in the mirror and keeps glancing at her through it. She's wearing her traveling clothes again, her hair still damp and braided away from her face. A thought occurs to him and he suggests taking her to get a few lady's things to wear for the trip home, a suggestion that's taken well.

Their evening meal is brought and eaten quietly as the two travelers are hit with fatigue and happiness about food isn't stale or dried. Emma begs off after, wanting to nap; it will be a long night, so Liam brothers play cards to pass the time; Liam loses often, his mind clearly elsewhere. Midnight watch is called before Emma finally returns, looking more refreshed. "Sorry, I slept later than I intended," she says, closing and locking the door behind her.

"It's alright, lass," Liam says, getting to his feet.

Emma nods, twisting her hands in front of her as she looks between the brothers. "Well, I suppose… It's probably better if we're sitting down."

"You'll need to lay down after, your highness," Killian says. "This might hit harder than the others."

She looks at him, exasperated, but indicates Liam sit next to her on the cabin's small bunk. She offers her hand and Liam takes it; Killian shoves aside a flare of jealousy under his breast. He gets to his feet, too anxious to sit and watch as Emma closes her eyes; this time feels different, the air crackling and his skin feeling damp-almost like he's back in the jungles of Neverland. Liam inhales sharply and thin black lines start to creep up her hand. Killian forces himself to remain calm, remembering all she's been through in the past few weeks, until she sways, releasing Liam's hand.

He rushes to her side, holding her upright as Liam gets to his feet. He inspects his arms and rushes to the mirror, undoing his shirt to check if the black lines on his chest are gone; meanwhile, Killian lays Emma across the bunk. Her eyes are closed, her brow furrowed. "Feels-different," she says.

"I know, love, I know. Just-just rest easy." Killian calls for Starkey, forgetting the door is locked.

Liam opens it and orders a pitcher of water. "This should help keep you until dawn," he explains.

Emma smiles tightly.

The lines on her wrist creep higher.

Starkey brings the water and Emma drinks with trembling fingers; Killian holds the cup for her so it doesn't spill. She curls on her side towards him, holding his hand in both of hers like a lifeline. "I don't know how to help," he says softly.

"Don't leave."

Liam brings him a chair and though Killian is happy his brother is safe, he wishes this were another inn on the road where he could hold and soothe her. He does his best, holding her hand and smoothing back stray hairs, but it's not the same as feeling like he's right there with her, especially as a fever sets in.

He and Liam manage to get her under the covers. His brother starts to say something, but Killian silences him with a pleading look; he's not in the mood for talk. Liam looks at him oddly, almost like he's seeing his younger brother for the first time, then his face softens. He nods and leaves them alone for a time, claiming a search for more blankets. Starkey comes in to light the brazier in the corner. Killian tries to give her more water but she's shivering so hard by now that her lips cause the cup to spill.

The lines creep up past her elbow.

Liam finds a cloth that Killian dampens, mopping sweat from her face as the fever climbs higher. All the while he keeps a weathered eye on the horizon, praying dawn arrives quickly. He slips into a daze, staring at her arm and the black lines moving up and up and up towards her shoulder, towards their ultimate destination: her heart.

"Killian."

He looks up, bewildered. Emma is still, breathing shallowly, still burning. Liam points out the windows where the pearly pre-dawn is broken by the first rays of sun on the horizon. His heart feels light-they've made it to dawn! "Emma," he says, looking back down at her, and he freezes.

Dawn has broken, but the poison remains.

"Emma?" He feels her forehead, still damp with sweat and burning far hotter than humans should. Her pulse is weak, and pulling her collar aside reveals the black lines of dreamshade poison are nearly at her heart. "No. No no  _no_ , Emma, please, wake up."

Her eyes open, glassy from fever. "Killian-" her voice cracks and he reaches for the water pitcher before she shakes her head. "No, Killian, it's-it's too strong."

"Emma."

He feels broken, unable to do more than plead with her to see reason. But dawn has broken and the dreamshade remains, magic too powerful for her curse to overcome. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I thought it would work."

"No, love, it's me who should be sorry. I shouldn't-I should have found another way. I shouldn't have risked your life for this," he says, tears burning in his eyes.

She shakes her head, smiling weakly. "Killian, it was my choice. You have your family. You set me free. Just… please, take me home to my family, tell them what happened? They-they deserve to know." She shudders, wincing in pain. "I'm-I'm glad I met you, Killian."

"Emma-"

She winces again, a groan tearing from her throat. She squeezes his hand hard and he holds tight, refusing to let her go. "It hurts," she whispers. He can only nod, covering her hands with his free one. "Killian, I'm scared."

His lips brush her knuckles without thinking. "I'm right here, love," he tells her, his voice cracking. "I'll be with you the whole time, it's alright to be afraid."

She looks up at him, her eyes glassy and trusting, and nods. "I-I love you," she whispers, her voice shaking as her eyes close.

There's that odd, detached feeling again, like he's watching this all happen instead of living it. His heart thunders in his ears and he feels cold, so cold. "No," he whispers, feeling her grip loosen in his hands. "No, no you can't-you can't just-"

The black lines spread out across her chest and up her neck and he feels as if he's drowning. Her hands go limp and he can't  _think_ -he can't  _fix_  this. "I'm so sorry, love," he whispers, bowing his head over their hands. "I'm sorry, I-I wish…" He lifts his head, blinking away tears. "I love you too, Emma," he tells her softly, and bends down to kiss her lips.

Something pushes against his chest, his hair blowing back in some sort of breeze. Liam cries out in surprise somewhere behind him. Emma inhales deeply, her grip tightening as she tries to sit up and cough all at once. "What-"

"Bloody hell-"

"Killian? What happened?" Emma looks at him, bewildered, but he only lifts her arms and watches the black lines fade away.

Liam clears his throat and they both turn to him. He appears less confused; instead Killian recognizes his brother's expression-one that means there's an enormous amount of teasing in Killian's future. "I'm not an expert in the matter, but I believe you just broke her curse with True Love's Kiss."

Killian's jaw drops and he looks at Emma again; she, thankfully, seems floored by this as well, if the flush on her cheeks says anything. "How-?"

"You did confess, little- _younger_  brother," Liam amends, which  _would_ be astonishing if Killian hadn't already used up his allotment for the day. "As I said, I'm no expert, but Mother did always say we'd know it if we ever saw it."

Killian traces her with his eyes, the hair falling from her braid and the flush making the freckles on her nose stand out, thinking she's never looked lovelier. He ducks his head a little, encouraging her to meet his eyes, and she offers a shy smile. Warmth blooms all over his body and he can't help but smile in return. "Well, my darling," he says, leaning closer and resting his forehead against hers, "if you'll excuse a poor sailor's tongue, that was one hell of a first kiss."

She smacks him on the arm, but she's giggling, which means she's blessedly alive and that's all that really matters.

Well, that, and kissing her again for good measure.

* * *

She stands at the bow, her knuckles white on the rail as she watches the land draw closer. It's the first time she's catching a glimpse of home in more than four years and she's awash with nerves. Her magic returned to full strength, she'd sent a message to her parents the morning they'd set sail. There'd been no return message so she's not sure what to expect. A creaking plank gives her warning before there's warmth at her back, and one of Killian's arms circles her waist, his other hand covering one of hers. The nerves fade, his steady presence near her soothing her as it has for weeks.

They'd had little time to talk since the kiss that saved her life, but she knows what they share is rare. She knows she'd like him to stay nearby and has run through dozens of possibilities to share with her parents-namely how the addition of fifty men could help serve their navy. She's looking forward to landing so he'll have less to do with running the ship and more time to hear out these ideas; Emma doesn't want to force him into anything he doesn't want to—him or his brother or their men. "I didn't think I'd be so nervous to come home," she admits, leaning back against him.

Killian presses a kiss to her head. "It's alright to be nervous, love."

"I know, just… there's going to be a lot happening once we return. And I want you to know that everything between us will remain the same," she says, turning in his arms to see him properly. "I love you, Killian, and nothing will change that," she says.

He chuckles and it rumbles against her chest. "I'm glad to hear it, Emma, because I love you as well. I'm sure some things will change. From what you told me of your mother, there will likely be a ball or seven to celebrate your return." He laughs again at her groan. "And I believe I did tell you I'd try being stuffed into a corset, playing the smiling hostess, did I not?"

She gives him an incredulous look, and he grins. She makes a face, shoving him lightly. "You're a ridiculous man, Killian Jones, and you're lucky I still love you."

He bows his head, his lips brushing hers; she melts into his kiss a little, glad for his arms to keep her upright. "And I'm aware of that every single day, my love. Now, let's get you home."


End file.
